A New Beginning
by TheMorningAche
Summary: From Reaver's quest to bed the princess, to Logan's quest to save Albion, to the prince's desire to wear a dress, and everywhere in between. Drabble series of many genres and ratings, all weaving stories from a new beginning.
1. Over My Dead Body

**OK, so I wrote this with the thought "Can I get Reaver to beg for a woman?" And since my princess always ends up being a vanquisher, butt-kicker type girl, I wrote her in it. This is what happens when I aim to write humour. It's a bit weird, and might seem fast at times, but do try to enjoy. And review.**

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The first time Reaver spotted the princess, prancing about the garden with a young boy in tow, he felt very much the same way he did whenever he saw a fine specimen: magical. His heart pumped eagerly, the adrenaline flooding him in anticipation of a hunt - followed by another activity just as beloved by animals everywhere but a bit more strenuous. His lips curved in an attractive smirk. His eyes narrowed, his pupils dilated. It was all so pure and mushy he sometimes fancied the feeling to be love. A love comprised of a great deal of sweat and skin, accompanied later by a blasé dismissal, but love nevertheless.

Yes, she was young - six, if her mother's affectionate prattling was to be believed - but new experiences were nothing if not oh, so _delectable_ to Reaver. And in the spirit of trying new things, Reaver had asked for her first. As opposed to his usual 1-2 step process of sweeping one off their feet and plundering them into oblivion.

"Over my dead body," the Queen said resolutely, punctuating it with a firm stroke to her daughter's dog's back. The mangy thing squirmed in her lap.

Reaver bit back a sneer, remembering that while it certainly didn't make him look bad, he wasn't his best doing so either. Instead, he sent an imploring look to the other two seated at the table. The dark male - Garth, he reminded himself, because the man didn't seem to like being called git - gave his disapproval with a silent look of exasperation. The other female - who truly looked more like a hermaphrodite than a "Hammer" so could he really be blamed for calling her as such every time he saw her? - voiced her opposition more verbally.

"What? What is wrong with you? T-that's sick! She's just a wee little girl and you've- you're-"

She broke off with an indignant snort, which reminded Reaver of the nickname he had thought of to give her last night. Perhaps "hog" could be saved for a time when she wasn't riled and equipped with weaponry though.

"No. Just no." Hammer turned in her seat, away from her source of irritation. The blatant rejection might've had more an impact if Reaver had not been musing on where they'd found a chair sturdy enough for her. She muttered about perverts, delirium, and poor children that didn't stand a chance against their "weird uncle". Reaver ignored it in favour of making note to ask the Queen of the origin of the chair.

"I'm sorry, dear," he said, snapping his eyes from the rather large fanny making not even a groan as it shifted in the chair. "What was that? Over your dead body?"

The Queen's eyes smouldered with all the intensity he had come to enjoy as much as he hated it. Her brow wrinkled and she spoke carefully. "Yes? You thinking you can send me there early?"

He balked at the mere suggestion. "My goodness, no! Me, kill off the beloved Queen? I could never! Such a thing, how dreadful." He crossed his fingers just in case.

But it turned out he hadn't need to, as the Queen passed not two years later. Of natural causes. Her son, a creature Reaver found fascinating - though in a different way than his sister - and easily proved worthy to be watched, took the throne not much after. Still quite high on the new thrill of following standard social procedure, he gave them a mourning period of a year before coming to collect that which the old Hero Queen had all but promised him would be his after her passing.

He decided to ask again this time, dismissing the idea of simply snatching the little pumpkin up and heading for the nearest suite. The getting permission thing had been deemed interesting enough. (No, it would be more correct to say it was quite a good deal interesting. The look on fathers', mothers', the lovers' faces themselves never got old. And if he played it well enough, the resulting orgy came with quite the show of dramatics after.) He looked the King - Logan, who had already been mistaken as 'loo' and 'lavatory' twice in one meeting - in the eye and asked that the man fork over his sister.

"Never," he replied, followed by, "I've been thinking about having Reaver Industries expand to some new territory. The move would be more fluid if you were to offer some new products at the same time."

Reaver took that to mean "I'm going to say never and expect you to stay away from her, however if you take her while I'm caught up in this ruling gig, so be it. Also, please have more land to cultivate into a money-making wasteland." It sounded like the makings of a future brother-in-law, if Reaver had ever heard it. He could almost kiss him if he was more aesthetically pleasing. But he wasn't, so the immortal just stayed in his seat and prepared to give a pitch on a machine that did the blood-letting for you.

The next time Reaver made a move to go forward with the princess and his relationship was two years later. It found her a pre-teen and blooming, him as young as ever and spotted in a few places after a month-long interest in leech-play. But despite the spectacular climax, in which he was dizzy from euphoria and a great deal of blood loss, two years later found him bored. His partners could come and go, the leeches could come and go, an unfortunate experiment with tar and feathers had come and left not soon enough, but his tedium just didn't seem to quit.

So towards the end of one appointment with his new favourite monarch, who provided a respite amidst waves of dull, he decided to pay a visit to his darling. What he was met with was dripping sweat, flushed skin, harsh panting, and trembling muscles - none of them caused in ways he'd prefer.

The little sweetheart was clutching a sword, that side of her body drooping for the effort to keep hold of it. Her glossy hair clung to her skin, her skirt mostly tucked into her tights in an attempt to gain more mobility. She offered a half-hearted smile when she saw who had interrupted her lesson, before flopping down as her mentor greeted their audience. Walrus- er, Walter marched forward with purpose, the stride only making Reaver take note of his girth rather than his imposing stature. He supposed he used the same chairs Ms. Hog had. The moustached man blocked the princess from his view. He'd guessed that there might be a few unsavoury rumours about him around the castle by now. No matter.

"I wish to claim the princess for my own now."

"Over my dead body," the larger bloke replied. Reaver again had to restrain a sneer, wondering if perhaps he should have such a thing arranged for these obviously death-giddy folks. It would probably make the courting thing go so much smoother.

The promiscuous male held the others' gaze, practically feeling the frustration begin to ooze off him as he kept his own stare decidedly flippant. Finally, he smirked. (Which succeeded in making the giant splutter.) He had received a nice recharging dose of amusement and was ready to dive back into life with fervour. He had gotten the magical feeling back just by being in near proximity to the charming royal. He couldn't wait for the day when no borders - be it clothing or walrus-like beings - would stand in the way.

He thought the old man understood that, if the scowl and glare was anything to go by. Reaver leaned around him, waggling fingers at the dazed-looking youngling. She summoned enough strength to beam at him and he barely summoned the restraint to not blow kisses at her. He offered her a dazzling grin instead. "Tatty bye, sweetness!"

He managed his boredom better from then on. The lulls in excitement were either spent conquering the business world or taming other things in more... private settings. King Lavatory and a slew of salacious wonders kept him occupied, though in different realms. Admittedly, his thoughts hadn't wandered much to the highness. There was something most accurately described as manic in the air to keep him engaged.

The King was in a hurry, but for what was unknown to even him. There were pauses in his speech, elongated as a mixture of emotions passed through his vibrant eyes. Worry, despair, hope, bitterness, resolution - year upon year of living gave Reaver the keenest insight to the minute shifts in feeling. But there was something in the smouldering look, so much like his mother's, that held Reaver back from asking the meaning behind it. So instead he acquiesced to the winding storm the monarch had become, submitting to being pulled along for the ride. It at least promised to be entertaining.

Cacoethes seemed to be the theme that year. It wasn't just Logan's plotting. Everything seemed excited, vibrating like a vein but as tense as a string pulled taut. There was discontent forming amongst subjects, bloody _whining_ amongst the workers, nosy prattling in the ranks of soldiers. New advances were being made and things were changing. While his bedroom had never been more exhilarating for it, the changes scared others. As they had a tendency to do.

The panic, lying just under the skin of the kingdom, was frankly annoying. A bother Reaver didn't care much to pay attention to, but nevertheless made itself known. It was so much harder to dictate every measure of your employees' life if you weren't the principle thing on their mind. Even harder if you were biting back a bit of trepidation yourself. He decided it once again time to grace a certain royal with his presence. But rather than a small, cloying sweet noble offering a fully-developed body up for pillaging, he was met by what he assumed to be her lackey.

Elliot was one of a special few in that didn't receive a nickname, though not for reasons that applied to the late Hero Queen or her youngest scion. He simply didn't register the effort put into one. He was a bland sort, all clever in words only and rather plain in looks. Reaver took it as bad taste that the younger had somehow managed to secure a spot at his princess' side. After all, if he wasn't bright enough to bugger off when Reaver showed up to claim what was his, he obviously wasn't smart enough to hold court.

"No," Elliot said, his voice cracking with an ongoing change that Reaver could only foggily recall going through himself. He chose a wave of nostalgia over listening to the tirade the younger male then embarked upon. Ah, but weren't those the good days...

"-Therefore, I absolutely refuse to even think of handing over-"

"Hm, that's quite nice and all, but where did you say I could find the little sprout?"

Reaver inspected his nails. While never interesting before, held up next to a countenance screaming boring, they seemed almost as enthralling as sex. Almost.

The youth began working his way up to another diatribe. Reaver could almost feel his life ticking away. If he had a normal lifespan to lose, that is. He glanced around the area Elliot seemed to be determinedly protecting. Sure enough, one angelic form swimming in rich cloth could be found in the shade. He sidestepped the boy, leaning over to examine his discovery, resting under a tree and breathing softly. With her eyelashes fluttering, her cheeks rosy, and her lips plump, it made it a difficult matter resisting taking her now. And he had always had a thing for exhibition too.

"W-what are you doing," was the youngling's stuttered question from somewhere behind him. He thought it best to show him. His lips lowered until they met smaller, pink ones.

The look on Elliot's face, paired with an overdose of the "magical" feeling, left the eternally youthful bloke sated for quite a long time. Five years to be exact, in which he hadn't approached the youngest royal again. Being as desired as he was kept a man busy.

In that time, power had become synonymous with his name. He felt a consuming need for more. More people acknowledging him, more money to keep him placated, more time to waste and enjoy. (A lot less tar and feathers, however. No amount of time seemed to fix how... wrong it felt.) He could recognise the change in him, even more the reason behind it. But admitting it was another matter entirely, one that required more willpower than he could deign to collect. So if the price of remaining ignorant was a little less pleasure taken from life, well, he was already pretty much the first authority on enjoying life and could gleam pleasure from it just by being himself. The money and the never-ending cycle of partners just fell into his lap.

Asking permission for anything hadn't been used much since his confrontation with the Walrus (who he had since taken to calling Wanker, due to the man seeming to have enough time to follow him around the castle every visit, probably ensuring the princess' purity remained intact. Swinging a sword around wasn't the only reason his hands were calloused). Such formalities had all but fallen into disuse. It still made the occasional appearance on Flashback Fridays. The orgies then always got quite raucous, and as such were under consideration to be renamed Freaky Fetish Fridays. As long as leeches remained, and tar and feathers were kept out, Reaver supposed he didn't mind either way.

He didn't mind much these days, it seemed. Not Lord of the Loos and his frenzied scramble for a new kingdom; not a stalker coming in and trying to steal his undergarments - though he took measures against that just in case; not a rebellion surging under his feet; not his workers' complaints, though he shot them anyway, since it was rather good fun; not that he'd been kept from the one thing harder to claim than immortality. It was bleeding unfair is what it was. Reaver, expected to be mollycoddled by all life's fleshy pleasures while they snuck his prize from under his nose.

He thought on that for a while, simmered in the frustration that resulted. Then epiphany struck and he bounced off rather jauntily to kidnap some rebels, and in turn, win back what he was owed.

However, that said, he hadn't expected it to go this well. It was easy enough to say, but he had expected a little difference in how he planned it and how the event actually was executed. He had to admit that his eyes might've bulged a centimetre larger and his mouth might've opened the slightest in shock. It could easily be explained as watery eyes and poor oxygen supply from close quarters with blood-scented balverines though. No, really.

Presence of shock notwithstanding, the princess had finally bloomed in the half decade since their last encounter. She was more a zaftig than any he had come across in a while. None of her mother's brutish charm, or the villagers' meagre appeal. She was just her own exquisite breed. She was a collection in and of herself. By herself. A comment about coming between two siblings died on his lips. What came out instead was:

"Can I have you?"

There was a pregnant pause in which Reaver was certain the woman with the princess was getting flustered on how to answer. Probably thought - hoped - he was talking to her, poor dear. Maybe at a later date, however... The princess was silent as well, though not a calculating, or shocked, or awkward kind. She just didn't seem to think it warranted an answer. Which it really did. This was Reaver after all, the best she could do whether she knew it or not.

"Over my dead body."

A sneer flickered onto his face, though he wasn't sure if she could see it from the distance. She could, if the smile crooking her pretty, little lips was anything to go by. His sneer didn't let up.

"Well, it's something I've never tried before. It might be interesting to see if a stiff can get me stiff."

The royal runaway neither smiled nor frowned at his quip. Reaver said an oath under his breath, dedicated to all those that had made his rose so prickly. Then he flashed her a smile, taking another approach.

"What's wrong, little one? Rebels tell you I'm the big, bad wolf, come to eat you up?" He added an impossibly salacious smile as punctuation, but her expression didn't budge. "Come now, is that any way for a guest to treat her host?"

Impassive. Maybe a bit exasperated, if the sigh said anything. But she stepped closer to where he was perched, so he supposed he shouldn't feel too bad. Her eyes lifted and locked onto his. He felt his heart quicken at the fire in her eyes, ever more bright than any look seen in her kin. It seemed to flay him alive, to roast him from inside out, to drag talons up and down his skin. He found he rather liked it.

"Listen," she started, as the rebel mistress wrung her hands and glanced around shyly. "I have need of allies and funds. You happen to be in possession of both. I have something you need, you something I want. Should we make a deal?"

Reaver didn't need anything, he was close to telling her. He had immortality, wealth, looks, and a bed that retained its plushness despite regular abuse. He was good on all the necessities. And it wasn't even like he wanted her. It was more his sense of duty and loyalty to her late mother, urging him to take the orphaned child under his wing. And all he asked in exchange for his protection, his care, was that she spent the hours not occupied by rabble-rousing on her back. On his bed. Which was rather not too much to demand.

And he had intended to tell her all the aforementioned, making it quite the monologue, but instead what occurred on his lips was a smile. One which the princess returned with no small amount of amusement. One which caused even the dark skin of the rebel female to flush. One which, he realised with equal parts trepidation and wonder, sealed his fate.

He tapped his cane twice against the ledge, spun the wheel, and knew without looking that it landed on the question mark. He proffered a knowing grin to the royal rebel's confused glance. His arms gestured towards the open door with all the suggestion and grandeur he could manage. Without turning to see if she moved towards it, but knowing she would, Reaver left through the door behind him. What he knew, and what the princess and possibly her friend would soon find out, was that a man can never have too many secret bedchambers. And that once claimed, Reaver wouldn't let go of his beloved toys too quickly. Over his dead body.


	2. Oh, So Pretty

**Wanted to do horror for this one but... It was already pretty long so I'm leaving it off for another day. Still a bit strange, this one. Wanted to write a story where "prince is oh, so pretty. Covered in bodily fluids and wearing a dress". Instead. The prince is wearing a dress. Must write him in one more frequently. No idea about old-fashioned make-up and dresses so I wrote out of my head. Enjoy!**

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His brother was handsome; he was pretty. It was an unspoken rule, an omitted truth, that had always existed. Since birth, it was fed to him, as finite as his maths lessons, as substantial as the feasts he ate. It was something that lived without encouragement or sustenance, as were all laws. And therefore it stood: his brother was handsome; he was pretty.

As a child, it hadn't much meaning. Words like "hate", "love", "handsome", "pretty" didn't have much bearing on a child's mind. Words in general felt weightless. They were pretty little puffs of air, manipulated with tongue and teeth, until they formed recognizable imitations of their originating source. There was no heartbreak in love, no vitriol in hate, no admiration in pretty or handsome. They were sounds and scribbled letters.

However, something - some unknown emotion that fiddled with his insides, flopping between his stomach and his heart - was stirred by terms like "handsome" and "pretty". He assumed, because no one could properly define it, that the feeling was the meaning in his words. The emotions to back them up, proving to him at least that they weren't falsities. But, again, words can hold very little weight to a child.

He thought Logan was indeed handsome, nevertheless. He was more like their father: tall, gangly, plain with just a hint of something special. That something special was in everyone their mother interacted with. It was like some of her beauty permeated that of others'. In Logan, it showed in his face. His face was something to notice. It was all sharp lines, chiselled bone, thin and masterful, something remarkable. His scowl, so unlike the smile always gracing their mother's lips, had an effect on people. The teasing sorts, like Aunt Hammer and Mr. Reaver, took his frowns as challenges and tried their best to get a rise out him. The nervous kind were uneasy around him, even more when he turned out to be a genius. The greedy restrained themselves under his steely glare, never fleeing because there was power to be found in his wake, but not flocking either, kept at arm's length by his keen perception. People of all types were beautifully orchestrated around him, moving just so to suit him, a ballet or music score under the hand of a skilled conductor.

Logan was powerful. He was special. He made the greatest brother, an even worse enemy, and a force to be reckoned with. Not least, he was handsome. The ladies of court said it, their mum said it, even he had acknowledged it: he was handsome. And his little brother was pretty.

The youngest prince resembled his mother. Big, dark, clear eyes being framed by forests of dark lashes. Strong lines and shadows created from powerful bone structure. Full, dark hair and a body more attuned to lean muscle than any other form. A doll-like expression of the basest emotions. They had commanding looks. She was beautiful, but he wasn't there yet. He was pretty.

The maids adored him. Most women did. Whenever he made rounds with his mother to the kitchen, treats were snuck into his palm or his pocket. Syrupy sweet words, with little effect on him, accompanied the esculent presents. He was adorable, an absolute darling, and oh, so very pretty. Sometimes his mother let him fall under their watch. It was usually during her meetings or trips, but occasionally a lazy day off warranted time alone. At those times, his small hand was transferred from her large, firm one to a calloused, dainty one.

_It_ didn't happen the first few times. They seemed to find it precious enough spending a few hours with their pretty prince. But then _it_ was suggested, offhandedly, a delicious little dare spoken with a thrill of apprehension and mischief. _It_ was dismissed but _it_ burned at the back of their minds nonetheless. _It_ was inevitable in the end. As soon as _it_ left one's mouth, entered one's head, _it_ was already in motion. A lazy Saturday afternoon brought change in the form of lace, ribbon, satin, silk, frills, and all things pretty into his life.

The fingers tied the ribbon in his glossy brown hair gingerly, as if afraid stirring any other hairs would cause everything to fall apart. There was a tension in the final tug of the red satin. He looked at her curiously, though his glassy stare did little to show actual emotion. The women chittered, cautious, but with that same underlying sense of excitement. Next came another ribbon, a facsimile of the other. It grasped another section of hair on the other side, still done with an anxious air. But there was something like satisfaction mixed in.

Everything moved faster. The ribbons were followed by gloss, which came with a confession of theft that sounded none too guilty. The women rubbed it on his lips, making puckering faces until he imitated them. Then there was a light pink powder, vaguely resembling the flowers blooming in the garden. With an apologetic look, one female brushed it against his cheekbones, working it in. Then it was smeared over his eyelids. Like the assault of his brother's pieces on his opponents', during his seldom games of chess, they didn't stop there. Next was a thick black goop, which they coated their finger tips in, before grabbing his eyelashes and pulling lightly on them. A veil of black darkened part of his vision and he fluttered the lashes to try to get more visibility. It succeeded, but also drew out a few adoring murmurs from the group.

His shirt was removed, followed by his shorts and shoes. A flurry of cloth blinded him, having only time to register pink and shine. They were careful of his face, or more accurately, careful of their work so far. They pulled the material down, multiple hands coming to smooth it. He glanced down at himself as appreciative comments burbled up. It was a v-neck, with cap sleeves. Where the satin neckline and sleeves ended, white frills burst forth. They crept to his neck, danced around his wrists. The skirt was full and trimmed by more of the frills. It was simple and yet received such praise from the women. They were calling him pretty.

The next dress was an off-the-shoulder gown, still kept simple considering it was intended for children. It flowed over his hips, clung to his chest, pooled around his feet. It was blue silk, the color of the marks on Uncle Garth's skin, flowing with just as much contrasting intricacy and simplicity as the designs that covered his dark skin. They told him how fantastic his body was in it, that it really suited him, that they were jealous, that he was so pretty. The torrent of well-meaning words ended when the door opened and emitted the queen.

There was nothing but silence that followed. The digits adjusting the ribbon in his hair flexed before dropping. There was fear, tension, guilt, a dread so tangible and stifling that the prince flinched. He raised his eyes to his mother.

And she smiled. A wave of shock took the room as she scooped the youngling up, resuming their cooing and coddling. When her eyes shifted from her son to the staff, the look in her eyes was reproaching but almost completely inundated by amusement. Amusement, something like camaraderie, and an impish glee. Something akin to relief shone in the maidens' eyes.

Lazy afternoons became exciting afternoons, sometimes fading into evenings, and sometimes including the monarch. Every colour and fabric available became acquainted with his body. His lips were plumped, his hair adorned, his skin polished. And all the while, he was told he was pretty. It became the truth, testified by the help, his mother, and on one occasion, his brother, who gave his dress-wearing little brother one of the sweetest smiles he had ever given.

It didn't stop when he began school, nor when the queen died, nor when he became a teenager. When his body became too muscular for the old things, they made new ones. When his hair was cut too short for decorations, they sought out a wig. When there was a flood of people coming to the castle, they hid the activities. The only thing that stopped them was the prince's coming of age. Sixteen came and brought revelations to them, it would seem. He was a man, royalty, and no longer the tiny doll fawned over by all the castle. The dress-up game was retired.

But he was still pretty. He knew it with feverish clarity. The way glances lingered, shifting into stares; the smouldering feelings laced into every word he was given; the touches and strokes to his person - they told him he had grown and retained his prettiness. No one put it into words but it was evident. Just as much as his brother had kept on being handsome, he was still pretty. No amount of time, no loss of grooming, no lack of afternoons filled with adoring could take that away.

He kept up what the maids had quit. He took the powders and the gloss, the frills and the lace, the ribbons and the bows. And when his door closed on sunny afternoons with nothing to do, they were brought out. Clasps were clasped and buttons were buttoned. With an air of dignity and grace, produced by the outfit, he would stand in front of the mirror. He would croon how pretty he was, stroking his hand along the glass. He would vary his expression, from salacious to sly, from indignant to incomprehensible. And each made him look so wonderful, so marvellous, so pretty.

The muscles of his arms pulled at the straps of the dress, but wasn't strength darling? A few hairs curled over the top of dress, but wasn't that a sign of vitality? The dress hung limply at his hips, but weren't large hips bothersome? Seams were stretched around his chest, but nothing could be wrong with a large chest, could it? The dress stopped a little short of his ankles, but wasn't such a view considered sexy? The make-up made him look a little unnatural, but weren't all the best beauties something different? The bows were a bright yellow to a forest green, but didn't they give an interesting statement?

He smiled and watched with sheer delight as the vision trapped in the glass did the same. Yes, he knew it irrefutably. His brother may be handsome but he...

He was so pretty.


	3. A True Hero

**Wanted this one to sound more dangerous and foreboding but... Anyway, this is how my Logan always turns out: doing silly things seriously. May be considered slightly spoiler-ish to those who haven't launched the rebellion yet. Not too much really. Enjoy!**

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It was risky, Logan knew, but he also knew his beloved kingdom would fall if he didn't try. A war was coming, one that required a great effort and even greater funds. Currently, there was neither. The citizens didn't even realise their lives were in danger, threatened by a strange foe that lurked in the shadows, that crept upon them with every passing moment. An enemy that promised a fate worse than death. They would be devoured, inside out.

That day, looking at the royal treasury - nothing more than a few stacks of gold, easily gained by selling a few trinkets, and easily lost buying the same - he had resolved to do something. It was too much, leading his people into a future cloaked in darkness, himself tortured by that knowledge. He was hated by the people, but they weren't better off for it. And yet, if he could save them, he didn't care if his became the most abhorred face on earth. Lives of thousands were more important than that. That day, he determined in himself to rescue Albion. The first step was a visit to the treasury.

His assistant, a young woman who seemed more interested in his associates - specifically Reaver - than any official business, followed him there. She watched him curiously as he scooped up handfuls of gold, putting it into one large bag. The plain canvas material bulged and swallowed up the clinks of the coins. He ignored the gaze, which felt oppressive and judgmental. He would spare her life, whether Benjamina knew it or not, and he just hoped his efforts wouldn't be wasted on her. She was still young and had so much more to experience. That thought steadied his apprehension.

Swinging the bag over his shoulder, and wincing as it struck painfully with his thin back, he pushed past the female without another look. The king didn't know what he'd see in her expression, but as he was, any look might stop him. He needed to do this, ignoring what his nerves told him. This was quite literally a matter of life and death. If only his life had to be sacrificed in the end, then he wouldn't have failed and this would all be worth it.

The second stop was the servants' quarters. He brushed by the guards with a lowered head, ignoring their greetings, not looking up until after the door had securely shut behind him. It was a small room he stood in, beds cramped together making it look even more so. Clothes were strewn about, a river of them running between the two rows of beds. There wasn't sufficient storage for them, he realised.

His heart squeezed painfully at that. Oh, the things he could've and would've provided them had the time been more opportune. If there were not death looming over their heads... But his hope was strong that he could give them such things after. He might never redeem himself but at least his people would be able to hope for a future.

After he had dressed himself in a few of the articles of cloth he found, the poor material scratching maliciously at his skin, he went to the kitchen. His head ducked again, shuffling through as discreetly as possible. He fingered a few treats just laid out, before pocketing them or shoving them into a second sack. The exit came none too quickly.

Next, Logan grabbed a carriage. He chose the plainest one he could find amidst grandeur, gaudy, and intricate transports. It would be easier to slip away like that. The outside was beaten up wood, boards splintering and rotting. The wheels were mismatched and wobbly. All the seats seemed to have been confronted by an irritated balverine. The only horse that didn't seen odd pulling it was an old mare who wheezed and snapped at air, sometimes getting its own mane between its teeth. Logan frowned.

Every ounce of royal pride was telling him this wasn't suitable, that he could just as easily get to his destination in one of the safer vehicles. Nevertheless, he steeled himself. The place he was going had no use for pride. This was the humbling experience he needed in preparation for the inevitable wave of self-hatred and indignation.

It took him a week to arrive at his destination. The horse had died right outside the first town, and one more had to be purchased because of it. The bag of money rested a little lighter against his hip. The new animal wasn't much better the last, its tongue always lolling out. It seemed to also have a case of wanderlust, as any time Logan didn't have his eye on it, it would stray from the path. Usually it found him in dark forests, branches crunching ominously, the air still with tension, a panting breath right by his ear and then gone the next moment.

After a day, they made it back on the road, himself sporting a few new injuries, the horse seeming no more skittish than before. The bag lost a bit more weight, its contents going towards bandages and salve. A map was also procured, with the purpose of making the trip shorter and less dangerous. Time from then on when more smoothly. Hardly had any time seemed to pass when he found himself nearly at his journey's end.

He lowered himself from the carriage, taking a few stumbled steps. His head swam from a lack of proper nutrition. A few steadier steps brought his feet to stand upon a dilapidated bridge. Stones were scattered, chunks of the bridge were entirely gone, and he fancied he could see the whole structure sway in the wind. He wrung his hands and moved on.

Crowds of people milled about past the gates. The sudden amount of people, after a week spent in company of a solitary horse, felt stifling. The scents mixed themselves into a strange cocktail and choked him. Eyes seem to pierce him, reminding him of his assistant. All these people - plebeian or not - were people that would cease to exist if he did not do something. They were remnants of the old monarch, a piece of him, and parts of the future.

As his feet carried him farther, a vision replayed in the king's head. It was the vision Theresa had shown him. Albion being swallowed up by manifested darkness; Albion erased from its own map; Albion and its people lost forever. His Albion...

By the time he came to himself again, the bag of coins was already on the table. The last of his kingdom's riches, all wrapped in a sack. He was being examined, probed, stared at expectantly by the man behind the table. He waved a hand vaguely, indicating something which the man understood. He slid a slip of paper across the paper.

Logan took it, not even glancing at it, and kept his eyes down. All around was a shifty feeling, a tension and dread. There was a sticky smell of sweat, something that clung to his own skin. The people around him became nothing more than a savage, raw ball of emotion. Greed, despair, hunger, anger - manners so foul and human swell up amongst the crowd. He joined them.

As panic, anxiety, and regret welled up in his stomach, he was jostled by the neighbouring people. It only wedged him further into the crowd. There was a faint buzzing, probably much louder if it wasn't competing with the roaring in his ears. He could recognise that they were words but couldn't understand them. He just kept his eye on the forms racing across the field. A chant rose in his throat, coated with bile and indistinct. And suddenly the noise broke through the static thundering in his ears.

"The winner is the Feathered Avenger!"

Logan gulped, looking down at his ticket and willing it to be the name of the one just declared. His kingdom's future demanded it!

Two-Winged Timmy.

Albion was screwed.


End file.
